


shut the window?

by shootsharpest



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: And More Fluff, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, It's Soft, M/M, Sour Cherry Scones, The Catacombs, and a surprise!!!, return to Watford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 09:09:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16971747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shootsharpest/pseuds/shootsharpest
Summary: The Catacombs are every bit as dark and chilly as I remember, but having Simon by my side is always like having my own personal star. His light shines brighter than any spell I know of; his warmth seeps into my bones deeper than any drafty corridor beneath Watford.--Simon and Baz return to Watford one summer (with a few surprises, courtesy of Baz).





	shut the window?

**Author's Note:**

> happy snowbaz month yet again enjoy some returning-to-watford fluff with a (happy, i swear!!) twist!!

When I brought up the idea of returning to visit Watford at the end of the summer, I’d expected Simon would, of course, say yes. As I  _ also  _ expected, I come home on Friday to Simon already packed for our train ride tomorrow. He’s practically bouncing on his heels, probably running through any number of mental packing lists like he always does. 

(Never mind the fact that he’s usually forgotten to pack something crucial like a toothpaste, but I always remind him.)

Simon greets me with his usual kiss and dazzling smile, and tonight I wrap my arms around his waist to keep him close as I kiss him back, slow and soft. When we break apart, he’s beautifully flushed, and I recognize the little glint in his eyes. “Affectionate today, eh, Bazzer?”

I roll my eyes at the nickname, but I can’t stop the little smirk from tugging at the corner of my lips--perhaps it’s after years of hiding the fact that I find his cheekiness incredibly endearing. “A bit. Is there anything wrong with that?”

“I didn’t say that,” Simon laughs, hands coming up to rest on my shoulders as he leans in to give me another peck. “C’mon, dinner’s almost ready.”

“Smells good. Have you been packing all day?” 

“Pretty much. I didn’t get up til noon, though.”

I snort. “Looks like we’re about ready for our trip, then. Did you remember the toothpaste?”

“Yep, toothpaste, check.”

“Mhm. And the toothbrushes?”

“Check.”

“Excellent. Shampoo?”

“... Shit. Good catch,” he laughs, a bit sheepishly.

“It’s what I’m here for, right, love?” I nudge him gently. “Come on, let’s eat.”

 

* * *

One of the main perks of having an in with the current headmaster at Watford is free lodging when we arrive. We find that, since they apparently haven’t assigned anyone to our old room, we’ll be staying in a rather familiar space. When Mitali tells Simon, he all but lights up, ready to drag me back to Mummers House right off the bat. 

“Hold on, darling,” I grab him by the strap of his bag. “We have a few stops first.” The confusion on his face almost has me reconsidering (I’ve always been a bit weak for that look), but it gives way to his old what-are-you-plotting expression, and I have to stifle a little laugh. I slip my arm around his waist and start walking, guiding him towards the old dining hall. We take a left at the door, making our way to the back door, to the kitchen. 

“What’s this about, Baz? It’s summer, no one’s here--” 

But words fail him then, and I know the smell has reached him. There, on the counter, sits a plate of sour cherry scones, freshly buttered and still warm. Simon looks at me then, mouth agape and eyes wide.

“Well? Go on, then,” I place my hand on the small of his back, gently pushing him towards the counter. He stares at the scones like he can’t believe they’re actually  _ here. _ When he’s close enough to reach out and take one, I get to watch the expression of pure joy and familiarity break across his face as he bites into it. My heart flutters (always a strange sensation, since I can hardly ever feel it on a normal day) as he turns to me again, just the faintest bit misty. 

“They’re perfect,” he murmurs through a mouth full of scone. “Did you plan that?”

“Who else, love?” I smile, and he returns it.

One snack later, we’re walking across the lawn towards our next destination, hand in hand. Simon’s smile is nearly splitting his face as we make our way through the campus, pointing out all the little details he can notice has changed as I hum in response. I can tell by now he knows where we’re going, and he’s put his arm around me long before we reach the entrance to the Catacombs. 

“Baz,” he says gently. “Are you... sure you want to go in there?” I can only imagine it’s since we’ve been getting blood on rotations from butchers around our apartment, so it’s been quite a while since I’ve had to hunt. Almost since we left Watford, in fact. 

(I’m not particularly looking forward to being back in the company of all the rats, but I’m sure he can already tell, so there’s no reason to say anything.)

I shake my head. “I’m long overdue for a visit, after all. Besides... there’s someone I’d like her to meet,” I add, lacing our fingers. Simon grins, leaning in to press a kiss to my cheek. 

“Lead the way, Basil.”

The Catacombs are every bit as dark and chilly as I remember, but having Simon by my side is always like having my own personal star. His light shines brighter than any spell I know of; his warmth seeps into my bones deeper than any drafty corridor beneath Watford. 

We make it to her quickly. I know the way by heart, and Simon doesn’t let go of my hand.

“Hello, Mother,” I call ahead of us. (I’ve always made it a habit to announce my presence.) Simon’s fingers squeeze gently, and I return it. We’re standing side by side in front of her grave. 

“I wish I had known we were coming by,” he whispers, and I’m not sure who to. “I would have brought flowers.”

That’s something I love about him. He always wants to make the best impression he can on my family; he agonized for days over what to wear our first time going home after Watford, and we picked out Christmas gifts together for every single person in my family. 

(Needless to say, Daphne is still incredibly charmed by him. I can’t blame her, honestly.)

I only then realize he’s been silent since his last comment, respectful as he waits for me to either continue speaking or to finish silently paying my respects. There’s that little flutter again, too.

“I’m sorry for not visiting sooner. We’ve been in London--right, this is Simon,” I interrupt myself. “You’ve met, once, he says. I know you’d love him, once you get to know him.” This time, I’m not sure who  _ I’m _ talking to--her, or Simon. Both, I suppose. I can see him smiling out of the corner of my eye. And I know what I’m asking her, even though he’s still beautifully oblivious. I like to think I know the answer already.

We spend nearly half an hour catching Mother up on what we’ve been doing after Watford, what we’ve been doing together, about Fiona, about Father, about the business of the Old Families (who are much less involved in my life now, mostly by my own choice). By the end of it, I’m shivering a bit, though from the cold or emotion, I cannot say. Simon says goodbye, and that it was nice to talk to her again, and I’m feeling… soft, gentle, any and every synonym I can think of. 

I’ve never been more sure than in this moment for what I know is coming next.

 

* * *

 

 

The stairs are the same. Of course they are; there’s no reason for them to have changed, after all. There are few places that really  _ feel _ like home to me, but this is certainly one of them, especially while I have Simon’s hand in mine. 

He takes a deep breath as he places his hand on the doorknob, and his eyes meet mine. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” I murmur back, giving him a nod of encouragement. He exhales and turns the knob, and we’re suddenly eighteen again, stepping into our room after Christmas break, hand in hand, nervous and yet so, so relieved to be back.

He strides ahead of me, fingers trailing the baseboard of his old bed, stripped of sheets. The room is at first lifeless without our belongings, but it’s almost as if he’s the rain after a long drought, filling it with his vibrancy and energy. Perhaps I am being a bit overly-sappy today, I think.

My fingers clench and unclench at my sides. It’s surreal being here--the last time we were here was after the Leaver’s Ball, after we snuck upstairs into Mummers with a flask of good Scotch from Father’s study and a desperate need to see our shared home of several years one last time.

“Simon,” I say after a long while of standing and taking in our old room with him. “Would you be so kind as to shut the window?” It’s perhaps the gentlest way I’ve ever asked. That doesn’t seem to matter, though, because he snorts incredulously for a different reason. 

“It’s summer, how on  _ earth _ could you possibly be cold?”

“Humor me.”

He gives me a funny look, but surely enough he’s skirting around my old bed to tug up the blinds. He unclasps the pane, and my heart leaps wildly in my chest. He shifts it just so, the way he’s done and undone a thousand times, and I feel my palms sweating. He clicks the window into place, turning back around with some sort of remark on his tongue, and I’m already down on one knee. 

He takes in the sight before him, the way I’m kneeling, and the words die on his lips. 

“Baz, what are you--I--”

“Simon,” I interrupt, and the sound of his first name stops him in his tracks as always. I swallow, will my voice not to waver. “Simon,” I say again. “Do you know what today is?”

He shakes his head, and I can see his hands trembling from here. It takes every ounce of willpower not to get up then and pull him into my arms. In a moment, but not not yet. I have something to do first.

“It’s the anniversary of our first day here. It’s the anniversary of the day the Crucible gave me you.” I’ve rehearsed this so many times that the words come out more smoothly than I feel I should be capable of. “I had no idea at the time how much that day was going to change my life for the better--how much  _ you _ were going to change my life for the better. We’ve been through so much, Simon Snow, better  _ and _ worse, more than most couples must have by this point.” 

(He huffs out a little laugh at that. I know it’s mainly my own fault, and I know he does too. We’ve reached a peace on it, but I know he can’t help but remember it now. I take the moment to memorize his face for the millionth time--the way the light filters through his hair, kisses every mole as I know I will later.)

“I’ve been thinking about this… a lot, lately. In fact, there’s not much else I  _ have _ been thinking about. I want you in my future, Simon Snow. And, as long as that’s something you want, together, I can’t think of any ending happier than to marry you. Would you do me the honor?”

I barely get out the last sentence and the velvet box from my pocket before he’s flinging himself--always the reckless one, my Simon--into my arms. “Yes,” he’s saying, kissing my cheek, my jaw, my nose, my forehead, my lips. “Yes, yes,  _ yes. _ ”

And my mother’s ring, silver and a blue that rivals my love’s eyes, looks beautiful against Simon’s tawny skin. 

**Author's Note:**

> SURPRISE uwu 
> 
> find me on twitter @shootsharpest if you want to talk snowbaz !!!


End file.
